Iter boreale With large additions of several other poems: being an exact collection of all hitherto extant. Never before published together. The author R. Wild |
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THE Norfolk and Wisbich.
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THE Norfolk and Wisbich.
COCK-FIGHT.
By R. W.
Go you tame Gallants, you that have a Name,
And would accounted be Cocks of the Game;
That have brave Spurs to shew for't, and can crow,
And count all Dunghil-breed, that cannot show
Such painted plumes as yours; which think't no vice
With Cock-like lust to tread your Cockatrice;
Though Peacocks, Weathercocks, Woodcocks you be,
If y'are not Fighting Cocks, y'are not for me.
I of two feathered Combatants will write;
And he that means to th' life to express their Fight,
[OMITTED] his Ink the blood which they did spill,
[OMITTED] their dying Wings must take his quill.
No [OMITTED] were the doubtful People set,
The Match made up, and all that would had bet;
But straight the skilful Judges of the Play
Brought forth their sharp-heel'd Warriors; & they
Were both in Linnen Bags, as if 'twere meet
Before they dy'd, to have their Winding-sheet.
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Upon the Stage, the Norfolk Chanticleer
Looks stoutly at his ne'r-before-seen Foe,
And like a Challenger began to crow,
And clap his Wings, as if he would display
His Warlike colours, which were black and gray.
Mean time the wary Wisbich walks and breathes
His active Body, and in fury wreaths
His comely Crest; and often looking down,
He beats his angry Beak upon the ground.
This done, they meet, not like that coward Breed
Of Æsope's these can better fight then feed:
They scorn the Dunghil; 'tis their only prize
To dig for Pearls within each others Eyes.
They fought so nimbly, that 'twas hard to know,
To th' skilful, whether they did fight or no;
If that the blood which dy'd the fatal floor,
Had not born witness of't. Yet fought they more,
As if each wound were but a Spur to prick
Their fury forward. Lightnings not more quick
Or red, then were their Eyes: 'Twas hard to know
Whether 'twas blood, or anger made them so.
I'm sure they had been out, had they not stood
More safe, being walled in each others blood.
Thus they vy'd blows; but yet, alas, at length,
Although their courage were ful tri'd, their strength
And blood began to ebb. You that have seen
A Watry Combat on the Sea, between
Two angry-roaring-boiling Billows, how
They march, and meet, and dash their curled brow;
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T'intomb each other, ere the quarrel end;
But when the wind is down, and blustring weather,
They are made friends, & sweetly run together;
May think these Champions such: their bloodgrows low
And they which leap'd but now, now scarce can go
For having left th' advantage of the Heel,
Drunk with each others blood, they only reel;
And yet they would fain fight: they came so near,
Methought they meant into each others ear
To whisper wounds; and when they could not rise
They lay and look'd blows int' each others eyes.
But now the Tragick part! After this fit,
When Norfolk Cock had got the best of it,
And Wisbich lay a dying, so that none,
Though sober, but might venture seven to one,
Contracting, like a dying Taper, all
His strength, intending with the blow to fall,
He struggles up, and having taken wind,
Ventures a blow, and strikes the other blind.
And now poor Norfolk, having lost his Eyes,
Fights guided only by Antipathies:
With him, alas! the Proverb is not true,
The blows his Eyes ne'r saw, his heart must rue.
At last, by chance, he stumbling on his Foe,
Not having any strength to give a blow,
He falls upon him with his wounded Head,
And makes his Conquerors wings his Featherbed.
His friends ran in, and being very chary,
Sent in all haste to call a Pothecary:
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That 'twas not capable of any Clyster.
Physick's in vain, and 'twill not him restore;
Alas poor Cock, he was let blood before
Then finding himself weak, op'ning his Bill,
He calls a Scrivener, and thus makes his Will;
Imp. First of all, let never be forgot,
My Body freely I bequeath to th' Pot,
Decently to be boyl'd; and for its Tomb,
Let it be buried in some hungry Womb,
Item, For Executors I'll have none,
But he that on my side laid seven to one;
And, like a Gentleman that he may live,
To him, and to his Heirs, my Comb I give,
Together with my Brains, that all may know,
That oftentimes his Brains did use to crow.
Item, For Comfort of those Weaker ones
Whose wives complain of, let them have my Stones
For Ladies that are light, it is my Will,
My Feathers make a Fan. And for my Bill;
I'll give a Taylor: But 'faith 'tis so short,
I am afraid, he'll rather curse me for't.
And for that worthy Doctor's sake, who meant
To give me a Clyster, let my Rump be sent.
Lastly, because I find my self decay,
I yield, and give to Wisbich Cock the day.
R. W.
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